


black under moonlight

by starcunning



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: BDSM, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, F/M, Female My Unit | Byleth, Femdom, Fighting Kink, Hand Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23688682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcunning/pseuds/starcunning
Summary: When she sits before him once more her gaze sweeps over him, assessing him like a battlement she means to break, a fortress she means to besiege. A castle that she will conquer.“This excites you,” Byleth says. It is not a question, and there is no order to answer.But there may be pleasure in his answering, so he nods. A trickle of sweat stings against the tiny cut upon his neck.“I had not imagined you given to such mortal hungers,” she continues, seeming amused.“Mortal is the word indeed,” the knight agrees. He looks at her—she who wields the sword that will destroy him, if not now; she who has taken his blood for the first time. She will come for the rest in her turn. “There is an aching I feel when I see you with a weapon in your hand, and it drives me to seek you.” This much she knows, but he has never asked … “Do you not feel the same?”
Relationships: Jeritza von Hrym/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 2
Kudos: 66





	black under moonlight

The stone may be crumbling, but the edifices throw the sound of every blow back at the combatants. In this way the air is filled with the sounds of battle. The night air is cool upon the knight’s skin, and his opponent’s eyes are bright. Their swords are dull, however; scarred by their service in training and pitted with rust from their years of disuse.

Perhaps he, too, will become so pathetic in time. The war is over and the Emperor soon to return to her seat at Enbarr. Still— _ still— _ the Professor refuses to give him the fight he so craves. He will have it of her before she too returns to the capital, so that there will be nothing for him there. He will be free of her.

He does not want to be, driving her into the dark of an old chapel. Dust stirs around their feet as they move. Unarmored and barely armed, he drives her to the apse. Crimson glass spills the color of blood across her skin, and it goads him. This false battle, bereft of the promise of death, fought with strange sword and no edge—he must make it be enough. He charges, keen to drive her to her knees or pin her against the wall.

He does neither; she is far too swift and far too clever by half to allow it. The world is upended and he hears only the shatter before he lands on his back, breath torn from him. The knight looks up at the deepness of the sky and the chapel above his head. Her dark form looms in the window and then she lands beside him, blood-colored shards ground beneath her feet. She leans over him—washed clean by moonlight. He tries to lift his sword.

Something pricks him at the throat, and she smiles above him. When she draws her hand away it holds a blade not meant for practice at all, his blood clinging to the tip. Her smile comes because she has bested him; his own comes for much the same reason. He would be content to lay there in the lawns, to savor the pounding of his heart and the ache of his defeat, but her hand fists in his tunic, dragging him away.

Not far—only far enough that he can see the broken glass glimmer beneath the moon like stolen stars, dimmer still and less precious than the eyes she turns upon him. Her face has slipped back behind that impassive mask she wears, a far better guise than the one he wore when he yet was a professor and her peer. She touches his shoulders, his chest, his arms, where crimson blooms like spring anemones. Then she strips him to look upon bare skin. Cuts have opened upon him like livid mouths, weeping blood, and her brow presses into a frown of concern.

He associates healing with tenderness and rejects it, but she has had her faith as thoroughly broken as he, and is no healer born. Every wound opened upon him she touches, and the antiseptic of her bandages stings. On the damp of his bare skin he can feel her breath, an unsteady wind far deeper and slower than his own.

She seems to notice as he does, shooting him a questioning look. When she sits before him once more her gaze sweeps over him, assessing him like a battlement she means to break, a fortress she means to besiege. A castle that she will conquer.

“This excites you,” Byleth says. It is not a question, and there is no order to answer.

But there may be pleasure in his answering, so he nods. A trickle of sweat stings against the tiny cut upon his neck.

“I had not imagined you given to such mortal hungers,” she continues, seeming amused.

“Mortal is the word indeed,” the knight agrees. He looks at her—she who wields the sword that will destroy him, if not now; she who has taken his blood for the first time. She will come for the rest in her turn. “There is an aching I feel when I see you with a weapon in your hand, and it drives me to seek you.” This much she knows, but he has never asked … “Do you not feel the same?”

Her eyes widen just slightly, and a flush touches her cheeks deep enough to see in the silvery light.

He imagines the rush of blood beneath the skin, the quickening of her heartbeat to match his own, and waits in agony for her to speak.

Byleth says “Yes,” only that. The silence that follows is an agony not half so sweet as the stinging of his wounds. “Let me touch you,” she says.

It is his turn to feel the rush of blood beneath his skin, heating his cheeks and drawing tight that knot of frustration at his very core. “To what end?” the knight asks.

“To stoke that ache,” she says, in a voice far too kind to be offering such torments; “to relieve it.”

“Very well,” he agrees. More well indeed than the knight cares to admit.

She unfolds herself to stand, but a moment later she has settled her weight atop his thighs, pinning him in place with it. Byleth leans over him like a predator with cornered prey, and her mouth finds his skin. She forces him to his back, tongue and lips pressed to his throat, feeding from the pinprick wound she had opened there. Not content merely to taste the blood she had drawn directly, her mouth finds every fresh cut, her tongue a worse sting than her poultices. The knight cannot help the way he groans. He had not thought to imagine such sweet agonies from her empty hands.

When she draws back her mouth is black with blood, and she looks more beautiful than she ever has, even bearing that blade he hopes will kill him. The knight understands, after a moment, that while there are countless others who have seen her with her sword—seen her use that sword to bright and terrible effect—this tableau is for him alone. Knowing this makes it almost too precious to look upon, and yet it seems unthinkable to look away.

She seizes upon the knight’s indecision, her hand wrapping around his throat. This is not the death he craves, but he will accept it—or whatever else comes. She hauls him upright once more, and her blood-black mouth finds his. He can taste salt and iron upon her skin, his blood from her lips, and he aches with it. Her fingers knot in his hair, holding his mouth to hers. There is no pain in this gesture—the little sparks he can coax from his open wounds are too soon gone, and cannot account for the way he responds. He is so used to pain honing him, and there is none of that here but the edge of his desire sharpens.

Oh, to be the sword in her grasp, so keen and well-wielded. He feels like little more as she takes his hair down and runs her fingers over his body. Her nails catch at the edges of those fresh cuts, playing upon them like an archer draws back a bowstring. Her knuckles press to the blossoming edges of bruises yet to be, a duller ache that seems to penetrate deeper. Her teeth find his skin; she bites and sucks and he can feel the way his skin heats, the way the ache lingers. Tomorrow, the knight thinks, there will be no difference between the bruises granted by her blade and these from her mouth.

She splays her fingers then, pressing them to his chest, and forces him once more to his back. The knight wishes she had been a bit less careful of the glass; the ground is cool and dull and will never serve to awaken him. Neither one of them speaks; when he looks upon her face she is looking down at his body, unbuttoning his leggings and taking down his shorts. Her hands find the root of him, hot and aching, and when she closes her hand around him it is as though she takes hold of the need in the very core of him.

Her beauty seems a cruelty, another lovely thing he longs to ruin. He wants to kill her, to feel his weapon pierce her and to be drenched in the heat of her as her blood sprays. Mankind—or certainly the knight at least—is not evolved to know what to do with such precious gifts save the instinctual need to crush them within their hands. His find her thighs, soft skin jacketed in soft lace, and he takes hold of her. Hard as his grasp may be her muscles are harder still, and if his grip alarms her she gives no sign.

Instead she holds him with both hands, the tip of him nestled between the heels of her palms, her long fingers feather-light against his length. Her touch is light, working him with a twist of her wrists, tugging and pulling at the base of him as though literally drawing that need out of him. He has seen her swiftness in battle, landing blow after blow before her foe can respond, but she is torturously slow now. He squirms, trying to lift his hips into her touch, but her weight holds him fast. The knight understands then how utterly he is at her mercy; how he will have only what she grants him.

It is ever just on the verge of being enough, the way that she strokes him. Her touch grows firmer in time, working him over with a loose fist. Her eyes are upon him at least as often as her work, piercing him, laying him open. His hands clutch at her thighs, fingers catching in the whorls of her stockings, and he can hear the tearing of cloth.

The knight imagines her the way she looked earlier that evening, perched upon the jamb of the shattered window the moment before she leapt down. He thinks of himself laid upon his back, shards of crimson glass and drops of blood in the grass around him. She plants her boot on his chest and presses the tip of her blade against his ribs. He opens for her, welcomes the heat of the wound, the piercing of his heart, his death by her hand—

He feels as though he might die by her hand now. His heart hammers in his chest, hale and whole and absent her blessed sword. He cannot tear breath into his lungs fast enough to countermand the way it leaves him, in pants and sighs and little groans. Sweat upon his skin stings anew. He should be cold in the night air but there is some all-consuming heat within him, and he wonders for an instant if she might feel the same when her Crest of Flames ignites. It has done so only once against him and the knight longs to endure it again.

He does not want to escape her touch but he struggles nevertheless. It does not matter; she has him held fast. All he is now is need and heat and blood. He wants to kill her; he longs to die. He wants—he wants—that true battle. He wants all of her brought to bear against him, wants to see the sweat upon her brow, to feel the rise and fall of her chest and hear her pant and groan as he does.

“Next time,” the knight says. Before she leaves for Enbarr; before he loses his chance forever. “Next time, bear your true blade.” She looks at him and does not stop; the whole of him aches but none of it feels real except the places his skin touches hers. “I will come as I truly am, and we shall see.”

Byleth nods once. “We shall see,” she says.

Death is so close, and so is she. He feels, suddenly, all the chill of the night. Every muscle in him draws taut, and he digs his fingers into her thighs, pulling her upward, closer to him. He shudders and twitches beneath her hands, gritting his teeth against sensation until he feels warmth splash against his stomach. It ebbs and with it his need; with it the haze of blood that has veiled his thoughts since he saw her drenched in crimson light.

Jeritza lays panting upon the cool grass, dazed and exhausted. He looks up at her, and the softness of her face is a welcome surprise—nearly as much as it is to find his overwhelming need abated. It will rise again in time to find her the only answer, he is sure. He lifts a hand to wipe a smear of blood from just beneath her lower lip.

She holds no weapon and no ill intent. The moon halos her, casting silver through her blue hair. He can see her smile, and knows himself helpless, disarmed before her. Ease and peace are strangers to him, but she holds him entranced by her gaze, and for as long as he lays there unmoving beneath her, she keeps the tension at bay.


End file.
